prop up one arm in front of me, one hand in front of my mouth, wishing I’d brushed my teeth before they got here.
“You have to understand,” I begin. “It’s not like my daughter to be gone this long. She always calls or comes home.” I bite my lip to stop myself.
The older officer nods, pursing his lips. He’s heard this all before, I am sure. His partner, the younger man continues scribbling notes. He hasn’t once met my gaze. I wonder what he is thinking.
“Any other friends she could be with?” His brow knits.
In fact, he frowns every time he finishes asking me a question.
“I’ve called everyone that I know,” thinking of my earlier endeavor of having called twenty-two out of the thirty-four Jefferson’s listed in the Contra Costa County phone directory before finally finding Krista Jefferson’s house. She said she hadn’t seen Robyn in over a day and had no idea where she might be. “But no one’s seen her,” I finish. My hand travels to my throat. The skin on my neck feels parched, like onion paper.
“Did you two have a fight?” The older officer asks, his voice is noticeably droopier, all Father Knows Best. He frowns.
I look down. Pickles is busy making figure eights between the older officer’s legs.
“No.” My eyes seem to involuntarily fill. I look up. “Well, yes, sort of. But we seem to fight a lot lately.” I swallow my tears, willing myself to stop crying.
I watch the younger officer’s nostrils flare as he breathes in. I want him to look at me. I think that if only he would see this anguish that is crushing the breath out of me, he would understand.
“I found some money,” I say; it’s almost a whisper.
This provokes the young policeman’s eyes up from his clipboard.
“A little over three hundred dollars.”
“Does your daughter have a job?”
I shake my head.
“Does she use?”
“Use?”
“Drugs, Mrs. Skinner. Does your daughter use drugs?”
My hands have found the armrest of the couch behind me. The fabric is scratchy to the touch from where Pickles has sharpened her claws. I back away from these men and sit in order to steady myself.
I must look as if I’ve just been slapped because the older cop’s face softens.
“I’m not accusing anybody of anything. It’s just when teenagers have that kind of money lying around it could mean they’re dealing in order to support their habit.”
I search my mind for any evidence that Robyn might have started recreational drug use, but I can’t think of a single instance where I either smelled anything on her or suspected as much.
“I don’t think so,” I cede.
There seems to be so much about Robyn that I do not know. My eyes travel back down to the floor. Flakes of lint and dirt swimming the surface of the carpet remind me that I can’t remember the last time I vacuumed. Why on earth would I worry about my carpet when my daughter is missing? I shove the thought from my head. I swallow down the acid burn that flickers in my stomach, wishing momentarily, that I had a Rolaid.
“You mind if we take a look around?”
I blanch inwardly at the request, but can’t make myself refuse. What if they find something I missed? Some telltale sign that might lead them to answer the riddle about where Robyn went that might help them find her?
“Sure,” I say, and lead them to her room.
“Anything missing?” The younger officer asks.
“Maybe some clothes,” I say, “I’m not really sure,” I add almost beneath my breath.
“Her purse here?”
“No.” I say.
I wince as they walk into Robyn’s bedroom. Traces of her sweet smell are soon obliterated by the sterile odor from their uniforms; probably chemicals from the cleaners. Their boots are heavy and thick on the carpet. Her room is just as I left it; in a shambles. I have the sudden thought that the state her room is in is in some way a representation of our life. Chaotic, messy, undisciplined.
Their presence in Robyn’s room seems somehow obscene to me as they mull about, pawing through her drawers, peeping beneath her bed, slipping meaty hands between box spring and mattress. In the middle of their search I hear the front door. The officers look up at me as I bound from the room.
But it is only Rob.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asks.
“Robyn’s still gone,” I say. I give him a rundown of events to this point as I lead him to where the police are